


Stationary Orbit is an Oxymoron

by spyrograph



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Butterfly Effect, Garashir - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Neurodiversity, Timeline Shenanigans, Wizard of Oz References, qcard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-23 23:48:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyrograph/pseuds/spyrograph
Summary: "Imagine that the universe is a stack of plain wooden blocks. You can build all sorts of things with those blocks. The problem is when you want to rearrange a few things things that happen to be way down at the bottom of the stack and moving them shifts everything around. Sometimes moving a single block can destroy the entire structure. I call this the Jenga Effect."Lieutenant Commander Julius Subatoi Bashir is certain that nothing is the way it should be. It's terribly unfortunate that he's right.





	1. Prologue:  Once Upon a Time in Kansas

**2352**

**Topeka, Kansas, Earth**

 

It was late afternoon, on a cloudless day in May, and the sun cast fantastically long shadows. Jules imagined he was thirty feet tall and the thorns on the new rose bushes were long as knives. Months ago he had helped Ms. Rogers plant them. They’d taken cuttings and shoved them into potatoes and buried them in the ground. Ms. Rogers was always doing something terribly clever like that- “Life Hacks” she called them, “Early 21st century homemaking folklore. It’s amazing what you can do with things that already exist!” 

Jules imagined that the neat rows of thorny sticks, with their tiny new leaves, would grow into an army of knife-armed rosebushes and march all the way up to the whitewashed fence, across the green-wheat fields, past his own house, and onward to the horizon.  He should tell Mr. Rogers about that. It was the sort of imagery that Mr. Rogers liked to use in his surrealist holopaintings. “Paintsperiences!” he called them. “What’s the appeal of a completely constructed reality that’s exactly like the one you already live in?”  Most of Mr Roger’s work was like walking around inside one of Salvador Dali’s paintings. Jules’ favorite was an undersea museum dedicated to the misuse of tableware. 

Jules liked spending time with the Rogers. “Odd people,” Jules’ father said last Thursday at 6:34PM, “Very odd, but lovely. Creative-types, you know?” and Jules’ mother nodded, “They are lovely people. Jules, are you sure they don’t mind having you over so often?” Jules knew they worried about the fact that he didn’t really have any friends his age, but none of his schoolmates were interesting and the Rogers were the first adults he’d met who didn’t treat him like a child or a prodigy. 

Jules, caught up in his thoughts, tripped on an outstretched garden hose and fell over with an unhappy shout. 

“Jules?”  Ms. Rogers called from across the lawn where she and Mr. Rogers were encouraging their fat pink baby to crawl back and forth between them.  

“I’m fine!” Jules replied, breathless and embarrassed but unhurt. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky. He had been expecting an expanse of dusky blue and was amazed to see a single massive cloud. Rose-like swirls of white and gray cloud, delicate petals that blended and blurred and reformed and coalesced. It was beautiful! He wondered what could cause such an unusual cloud formation. Maybe it was a gitch in the weather modification net. Jules pointed upward, “Take a look at the sky!” as if in response, a white tendril of cloud licked downward. A rouge slash of wind dislodged a shingle from the roof.  

Ms. Rogers screamed something that Jules couldn’t quite understand because wind was suddenly filling his ears with dust and a sound like the rumble of a starship’s engine. Mr. Rogers was shouting too, and shoving something into Jules’ arms, but Jules could barely see him over the shriek of the wind. 

His eardrums popped. 

Inexplicably, Jules stood on his own front porch. The baby in his arms wiggled and shouted “Da! Da! Da!”  

Across the green-wheat field, the funnel of a tornado widened and descend upon the Rogers’ home.  A graceful white finger reaching down to touch the earth. It was beautiful. The clouds swirled serenely above the chaos of dust and detritus below. Jules was in awe. He felt the roar of the wind more than he heard it-- it vibrated through his bones. With almost religious rapture he watched as impossibly high winds ripped the house and garden and the white picket fence into a blur. His heart pounded in his chest and his every exhale was stolen by the roaring funnel and he could not look away.

It was all over before anyone quite knew what was happening. As swiftly as it had manifest, the tornado spun itself out of existence. Ragged wisps of cloud and a moat of dust stood over the now-barren plot of land that had once been the Roger’s home. In the distance, a warning siren coughed to life and wailed mournfully. The baby wailed in harmony with it.

“Jules! Jules! Get inside, quickly!” Jules’ father shouted, “Don’t you hear that siren!”

“It’s gone,” Jules said, “It’s gone.”

Jules never could explain how he had escaped the destruction. His parents proudly told everyone that their boy Jules had saved the life of Amanda Rogers by running the whole way.  But Jules had no memory of running. 


	2. Chapter 1:  in which Julius Bashir finds himself kicked upstairs

**23 YEARS LATER**

**USS Enterprise, near the Cardassian-Federation Demilitarized Zone**

 

“All I’m saying, Julius slurred, “is when I joined Starfleet it wasn’t because I felt a burning desire to stare across the Bajoran-Cardassian demilitarized zone for the indefinite duration of a cold war.”

“I understand how you feel.” William Riker had been nursing the same drink for an hour and the melted ice created swirling patterns in the amber liquor which echoed the painting on the wall behind him. It was moody impressionist’s landscape of Kansas wheat fields and a tiny farmstead menaced by dark clouds. “I didn’t exactly sign up to run convoys and ferry diplomats.”

Julius was quite certain that Lieutenant Commander William Riker (suave and handsome and secure enough in his career to turn down a captaincy) was genuinely incapable of understanding how he felt.

“You know, I envy you.”

“What for?”

“I mean, I suppose I can live with a stationary command post, but I really do envy you. Even if you’re not actively exploring the galaxy, at least you get to continue meeting important people and maybe get a chance to make a name for yourself if trouble starts.”

“Space stations are an endless parade of new people,” Will smiled, “ _and opportunities_.”

Julius was glad his face was already flushed from the alcohol and his unconventional position in the arm chair.

Julius couldn’t quite bring himself to confess his attraction to Will. Julius felt that the difference in rank had been the only thing that kept their friendship casual. Poker with the officers, Parrises squares, drinks shared at Ten Forward and only rarely in each other’s quarters. Now that rank was no longer an issue Julian was unsure how he wanted to approach the subject.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Julius had no doubt that his sex life would be the only thing improved by his new posting, “and I promise I’ll write you all about it.”

“See? There’s a silver lining.”

Will possessed that inexplicable magnetism which belonged to many Starfleet officers; that unlikely combination of joie de vivre and imperturbability which inspired loyalty and admiration. According to his superiors, it was exactly this quality that Julius lacked. So, in spite of his spotless record, his flawless performance, his peerless intelligence—Julius was being shuffled off to the galactic equivalent of the Siberian peninsula.

Julius was drunk enough that the painting on the wall behind Will seemed to animate. The clouds swirled. The wheat swayed. He felt something like a premonition of nostalgia or the anticipation of homesickness.

Counselor Troi thought the painting was a bit morbid, considering Julius’ history. He didn’t agree. It was cathartic—a reminder that he did not need to know all the details in order to understand the entire picture.

“I’m afraid I’ll grow feeble of ennui and drown in the bureaucratic minutia of operating a glorified refueling station—”

“You’re drunk, Julius. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“—inventorying containers of ethanol for the rest of my career.”

Will stood and straightened his shirt. “I’m not going to sit here while you wallow in self-pity.”

“Don’t leave!” Julius rolled off the couch and onto his feet. “I promise I’ll stop being such terrible company.” The world spun and Julius put a hand on Will’s arm to steady himself. “Please stay.” Will had such beautiful sky-blue eyes and this might be Julius’ last chance to say anything. “Let me give you a farewell present?” Julius knew he had it backwards but correcting himself would only make him feel more foolish.

“I’m flattered,” Will stepped out of Julius’ reach, “but I think I should be going. Congratulations, Commander Bashir. Good night.”

“Good night.”

That was that, then. Julius sat down in the newly vacant seat and picked up the abandoned glass so that his fingers matched to Will’s fingerprints, lips matched to the smudge on the rim. The liquor was slightly warmer than room temperature and tasted like drowned regrets.

 

***

**Deep Space 9, Bajor System**

 

Warp drive technology allowed people to cross impossible distances in relatively short time but it did not make traveling any less arduous.

An encounter with a Maquis raider prevented the Enterprise from making her rendezvous with the ship that was supposed to deliver Julius to Deep Space 9. Julius spent forty hours in the limbo of his barren quarters before disembarking at Starbase 375. At Starbase 375, he’d waited another eight hours for a ship to Bajor, and then a mere two hours for the next shuttle to Deep Space Nine.

When Commander Julius Bashir finally arrived at Deep Space Nine, it was 0100 hours.There was no one there to greet him when he stepped through the circular airlock.

The explosion threw Julius across the corridor.

The scream of a decompression alarm nearly drowned out the sound of the fire suppression system. Emergency force fields sprang to life. The blast had broken the mooring clamps and the ship drifted listlessly to one side allowing a clear view of the stars beyond. Julius was lucky, he realized, if he’d been on the other side of that airlock he’d be spinning out across the void.

Julius tried to sit up but something felt wrong. Terribly wrong. There was a jagged piece of metal sticking out of his side. Was that where his appendix was, or his spleen? There wasn’t very much blood, it didn’t even hurt that much.

“Stay still,” an alien hand rested on his shoulder—gray scales—holding an outdated flip-cover communicator, “Two directly to surgery,” and Julius found himself in a swirl of chaos that resolved into the sounds of medical equipment and urgent professional voices. He felt the cold pressure of a hypospray at his neck and then…

 _Julius stood on the rocky edge of a wide stream. Bright afternoon sunlight blurred everything into glowing abstractions. Water was the only sound. The stream was clear enough that the rocks were visible at the bottom. There were no fish, no insects, no plant life. The water whorled and swirled into a tiny vortex before him, just out of his reach. Julius was overcome by the need to slip inside that negative space- to be dragged down into the clear bright depths- and it was deceptively shallow. A misstep would send him plunging into unseen darkness. Knowing the danger, he stepped into the stream. It was so cold he couldn’t feel his toes. He waded toward the whirlpool; it was large enough to put his hand inside without touching the water. He reached out to do so_ — _but his presence altered the currents and the whirlpool collapsed…_

Julius woke and did not know where he was.

“You’re in the infirmary of Deep Space 9.” Gray hair, gray scales; the doctor was Cardassian. “How do you feel?”

Julius could taste his own mouth and his eyes felt dry as a hangover. “Not bad. I think. I’m drugged up?”

“ _Drugged to the gills_.” the doctor said in Federation Standard. His accent was strident and melodic. “But it will wear off in a few minutes. I’ve just finished putting you back together. That piece of conduit nicked your gallbladder. You’ll need to avoid certain foods for a few days to allow it time to completely heal, but you'll be fit for light duty by tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Julius offered his hand. “Commander Julius Bashir.”

“Doctor Kelas Parmak.” Julius recognized the name. Parmak was the civilian physician who had been granted political asylum when the Cardassians withdrew and then remained on Deep Space Nine throughout the Bajoran Civil War.

A lean Bajoran man in security-officer beige entered the room. “You’re awake. Good.” His voice was so coarse Julius expected the man’s throat would be covered in scars; instead it was uncannily smooth. “The colonel would like to speak with you as soon as you’re able.”

***

“Colonel Kira Nerys. Welcome to Deep Space Nine, Commander Bashir. I hope we haven’t made a bad first impression.” Julius couldn’t parse her tone—she was either being insincere or she was just as exhausted as she looked.

“Thank you. Do we know who threw the welcoming party?”

“They call themselves The Circle,” said Major Odo, the Chief of Security with the voice of a food waste disposal unit, “an organized group of xenophobic extremists leftover from the Occupation.”

Colonel Kira Nerys looked very comfortable at the desk. Somehow Julius doubted she could be dislodged from it without causing an interstellar incident. “Now the war is over they don’t have anything constructive to do. They’ve decided that the best thing for Bajor is to remove all non-Bajorans.”

“They see the Federation as a threat to Bajoran sovereignty,” Julius sighed. “My death would have made a nice addition to their agenda.”

“It seems they knew your itinerary.” Odo continued, “I’ve found evidence that the bomb was originally placed on upper pylon three and then hastily moved when your arrival changed. They weren’t nearly as thorough with the re-installation.”

“Thank goodness for shoddy work, then,” Julius stifled a yawn. “If you don’t mind, Colonel Nerys, I’ll let you keep the desk until morning.”

“It’s 0800 hours. The desk is all yours, Commander. Or, if you’re not up to the task-- the next shuttle for Bajor leaves in fifteen minutes.”

“I refuse to be chased away by a handful of terrorists.” Julius procured a cup of coffee (no cream, extra sweet) from the replicator.

“Our recent history has proven a handful of terrorists more than capable of chasing away unwelcome visitors.”

“Am I unwelcome? Is the Federation truly not welcome here?”

“The provisional government has already rolled out the red carpet. My opinion hardly matters.”

“Colonel Kira,” Julius watched Kira’s reflection in the viewport. Her [color] uniformoverlaid a Telerite freighter as it maneuvered to bring its port inline with the docking ring, “What do you know of human history?”

“Not much, I suppose. Earth is one of the founding members of the Federation. Your first contact was with the Vulcans. Didn’t you almost kill yourselves with primitive nuclear explosives?”

“Earth had no less than three world wars— and some historians hold that we had four. But long before we gained the technology to wage war on a global scale we were fighting each other, claiming land, subjugating native populaces in the name of Queen and country. Humanity has come a long way in half a millennium— but it was not so long ago that Earth had a great deal in common with Cardassia.”

The wrinkles on her nose multiplied when she scowled; It was rather fetching, “If you want me to dislike you, you’re doing a very good job.”

“I want you to know that I’m not here to plant a flag, Colonel. I do not have the moral high ground to stand on. I cannot say that the Federation is any less an empire than the Cardassian Union. Though, I hope I can claim we are reasonably benign.”

“That’s not what I expected you to say.”

“I do hope that Bajor will join the Federation, but I’m not interested in playing missionary. I know my predecessor was inclined to… proselytization.” 

Kira scoffed, “You can say that again! She never once shut up about how perfect the Federation was- what a paradise Earth was- how she wanted Bajor to be just like Earth.”

“—and she sounded just like Gul Dukat, whose vision of Bajor was a recreation of Cardassia Prime.”

“Exactly!”

Julius, satisfied that Kira Nerys no longer thought of him as an adversary, sat down at his new desk.

“So now that we’re on the same page,” his coffee was appallingly bitter. Whoever had programmed this replicator had never tasted good coffee in their life, “I want this business with the Circle dealt with as quickly as possible. I want it done in a way that will deter them from further activities on this station.”

Odo spoke, Julius had almost forgotten the security officer was there, standing so very still by the door, “I have identified more than a dozen individuals with ties to the Circle. Though, it might be difficult to find reason to remove them from the station citing Starfleet’s security protocols.”

Julius considered, “I think it would be better if the matter were treated as strictly Bajoran.”

“Well, that makes my job much easier!” Odo’s smile was… entirely too symmetrical, “Colonel, would you be amenable to instating a Level 5 security event?”

“On what grounds?”

“I don’t know. Surely you can think of something.”

Kira smiled, mischief, “I’ll invite Kai Bariel to tomorrow’s services at the temple.”

“Heh.” Odo laughed, “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he actually turned up?”

Julius was amused by this exchange- these two were clearly old friends. Maybe even more than friends, ah, well.

“Your religious leader?”

“He’s something of a recluse.” Kira elaborated, “A very polite recluse, who never turns down an invitation but always sends an acolyte in his place.”

“But since he accepts the invitation, security measures must be in place for the arrival of someone of his status.” That was really clever, “Excellent! Let’s get to work, shall we?”


End file.
